


The Line.

by TriDom



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcoholism, Chris is Stiles's Biological Uncle, Consensual Incest, Drug Use, Eating Disorder, Incest, M/M, Mental Instability, Parent Child Incest, Unhealthy Relationships, stiles is 24, uncle nephew incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 18:05:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17833499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriDom/pseuds/TriDom
Summary: Chris has taken care of Stiles since Claudia committed suicide and John tried did his best to drink himself to death. Chris left the life he had to take care of his brother’s son and never regretted it for a minute.But alcoholism isn’t the only demon that runs through his and John’s blood. He deletes his browser history and tries not to type Taboo. Family. Nephew. Into his computer, but he does.Things like that don’t skip generations. They just sleep. Waiting for the people who are bad enough to breathe life into them.





	The Line.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: if the tags weren’t enough to show this, this is an extremely unhealthy codependent relationship dynamic. Remember that you are reading this story through the lens of a man who craves sexual contact with his nephew who he has raised as his son. 
> 
> Read this story for what it is, a character exercise. Any bashing comments will be deleted.

He knew Stiles was home by the bang of the doorknob slamming into the wall. His keys hit the table. His bag hit the ground. Chris could see it all without going into the foyer.

There was a thump then drag along the wall. 

“Get off the damn walls.”

“I’m off the fuckin’ walls,” Stiles said coming around the corner.

He leaned on the doorway. There was a fat purple mark on his neck. His eyes were red-veined. Chris could smell cheap whiskey from where he sat.

“Get that fuckin’ judgy look off your face.”

“You drive that way?”

“No.”

“He’s a fucking cop for Christ’s sake.”

“He was drunker than me,” Stiles said, leaning in.

“Do it again and I’m calling his own deputies on you.”

Stiles smiled. “You know how much I love it when you daddy me.”

“Go to bed.”

“Come tuck me in,” Stiles said, unbuckling the belt that was keeping his jeans on his thin hips.

“Go.”

“Don’t fuckin’ judge me. Or him,” he repeated. 

“Just go to bed, Stiles.”

“Come tuck me in, Uncle Chris," he said again. 

Chris closed the book in his hands and stood up. Stiles’s eyes half-closed, looking at his mouth. Chris came close enough to tilt up Stiles’s chin. His lips were red and chapped from a gray beard like steel wool against his soft skin.

“If you drive like this again you aren’t too old for me to tan your ass.”

“Promise?” Stiles asked, smiling his half smile.

Chris dropped his hand and went down the hall to the stairs. They creaked as he went to the second floor and to his bedroom. He turned off his light, but turned on the lamp as he laid on his bed and tried to read.

It wasn’t long before he heard Stiles stumble up the stairs. A few minutes later he heard him vomiting. He gave it fifteen minutes before he went down the hall and leaned against the banister, looking in the small bathroom at Stiles hunched over the toilet. Stiles had taken his t-shirt off. There were marks on his back. Large fingers dragging down his skin.

“Need anything?” he asked.

Stiles lifted his head enough to look at him. “Time machine.”

Then he heaved again. It took the third try for anything else to hit the water. Stiles spit into the toilet after. Chris watched him for a few more second before he went back down the hall. It was after two. He could deal with sleeping, but he wouldn’t until Stiles was in bed. Apparently it didn’t matter if he was twelve or twenty-four. It was impossible to sleep knowing that he was sick down the hall, even if it was self-inflicted.

Chris was thirty pages further in his book when he heard a low groan from down the hall.

“Uncle Chris.”

It was a weak enough call that he could ignore it and say he never heard him. He thought it even as he stood up and went down the hall. Stiles was slumped against the bathroom wall with his legs splayed. Chris wetted a rag and wrung it out before handing it to Stiles. When Stiles barely managed to reach his own face, Chris took the rag and wiped his mouth and chin of vomit then flushed the toilet.

“Done?”

“Don’t know.”

Chris took his chin in his hand again as he crouched. “Never again, Stiles. You'll regret it I swear to God.”

“Sorry,” he said. “You love me.”

“Call me if you get this messed up again.”

“You wanna pick me up after my booty call,” Stiles said, laughing. His dark eyes were so red.

Chris’s stomach rolled. He tried to ignore what was happening five miles away. When it started he had punched John for the first time in his adult life. He left him on the floor of his rented two bedroom house with blood soaking into his tan sheriff’s uniform.

“Why do you act so self-righteous about it?” Stiles asked, his head lolled back against the wall. “I’ve seen your browser history, Uncle Chris,” he said with his vomit rough voice. “Young. Family. Nephew. Incest.”

“Stay off my fucking computer,” Chris said without the heat it should have had.

“You want it too.”

“I’ve jacked off to a lot of things that I would never want in real life.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’ve jacked off to cartoons of people being fucked by aliens. Doesn’t mean I want to be fucked by an alien.”

“No, ‘cause you’re a top.”

“Stiles.”

“What? Peter was such a sub. I knew it even when I was a kid.”

“Stop thinking about my sex life.”

“You can’t make me,” Stiles singsonged.

Chris threaded his fingers through Stiles’s sweaty hair and tugged his head back so that Stiles was looking at him. He put just enough pressure to make him wince.

“You’re already fucking your life up so much that I don’t know if it can be fixed. I don’t care what’s in my browser history. What I’ve gotten off to. You aren’t an actor. You’re my nephew and I love you more than my own fucking soul. I don’t know what you’re going through, but you’re going to leave me and you out of it.”

Stiles started to open his mouth before he closed it. Finally he nodded. Chris slapped his cheek roughly before standing up.

“Come on. Bed.”

“Can’t get up.”

Chris dragged Stiles to his feet. When Stiles staggered, Chris picked him up. In the last four months he had lost so much weight it was easy. Stiles had never been heavy, but now he felt like a bird. Stiles put his arm around his neck and pushed his face against his shoulder.

When Chris laid Stiles in bed, Stiles started pulling at the button of his jeans. Chris brushed his hands away and undid Stiles's jeans, trying to ignore who else had probably done the same thing before. When Stiles tried to take off his own underwear, Chris stopped his hands and got him under the covers. He pulled the blankets up around him as Stiles’s eyes fell closed.

Chris petted his thick hair before he went to the door. Stiles’s college posters were still on his walls. He had only come home a few months ago after earning his masters. He whimpered in his sleep as Chris turned off the light and left the door open.

 

Chris waited until seven-thirty the next morning to call John. He answered in a sleep-rough voice as Chris paced in his bedroom as orange light bled onto the wood floors.

“Hello?”

“Fucking your boy isn’t bad enough? Now you get him shit faced and let him drive.”

“He got his keys and I was too slow-”

“If you let him drive like that again, I’ll rip your fucking throat out.”

Chris ended the call and opened the door of his bedroom, going into the hall. Stiles’s door was still open from Chris looking in on him through the night. He was laying face down, spread out. There was a dark spot on the on the maroon fabric of his underwear between his legs. The slatted blinds left strips of orange glowing on his back and face.

He went down the hall and looked at the bathroom. He wiped the splatter of vomit from the toilet seat and flushed. There was a low groan from the other room and footsteps. Then Stiles pushed passed him. He dropped to his knees and his back rolled and he heaved.

Chris went back to his bedroom and took his glass from the night before and brought it back to the bathroom. He filled it from the tap and handed it to Stiles when he leaned back. Stiles shook his head, pushing the water away.

“No.”

“Stiles.”

“Can’t,” Stiles said, leaning on the toilet seat, his forehead braced on his hand.

His ribs were like steps under his skin. He could see his veins under it. The moles on his back. Chris put the glass of water beside the stool.

“Drink it. Then come down and get some ibuprofen. You need to be at work in an hour and a half.”

Stiles nodded, but didn’t say anything else.

Chris went downstairs and started a pot of coffee. He put bread in the toaster and took out the butter and jelly. Upstairs, the gurgle of pipes came through the ceiling. He sent a text to his assistant that he would be late as he leaned against the granite counters and stared out of the kitchen window above the sink. The old man across the street came out of his townhouse with his beagle trailing behind him. The dog only stopped sniffing the dew wet grass long enough to piss before the old man got his paper and went back toward his own home. His beagle followed without ever looking up.

Less than thirty minutes later, Stiles came down the stairs in the black button up he wore to the bookstore. A silver badge on the chest said his name and manager in small tight script. His short hair was already mostly dry after his shower.

“Eat some toast,” Chris said.

“Stomach’s fucked up.”

“Bread will soak up some of your shitty life choices,” he said. “You need to eat more. You’ve lost more weight.”

“It comes and goes.”

“I’ve seen you naked since you were twelve. No it doesn’t. Not like that.”

“Whatever. It’s a look.”

“Not a good one,” Chris said. “No one is going to hire a bag of bones to give therapy.”

“So you say.”

“Eat your toast,” Chris said, grabbing his coat from the back of one of the bar stools around the island. “Will you be home tonight?”

Stiles nodded, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“I’ll pick up dinner. Text me later and we’ll come up with something.”

“Okay.”

He locked the front door behind him as he went down the front walk. Chris walked around Stiles’s crookedly parked Toyota in the driveway. No dents, scraps, or even grass clippings. He got into his own 4Runner and backed around Stiles, onto the grass and into the road.

He drank the coffee from the steel tumbler Stiles bought him for his birthday three years ago. Then Stiles was in school and Chris never could’ve imagined a night like the one before. He wasn’t equipped to handle the situation at hand, so like he had been, Chris put it away on a top shelf in his mind as he turned up the radio and sipped the coffee that was too hot.

 

Late that afternoon, Chris texted Stiles about dinner and Stiles responded quickly even though he should be on shift for a few more hours. He called in their order to be picked up when he headed home. Then he had a meeting with a girl and her father about installing cameras and an alarm system in her apartment. She had already been robbed. The damage was done, but it could always happen again.

He met with another man fifteen minutes from the city center, wanting to put cameras inside of his house. Nanny cams. From the looks of it his youngest child was nine or ten. He said his youngest was two years old. He didn’t even try to explain the cameras he wanted placed in the master bedroom and bathroom.

His wife was cheating on him. He didn't have to say it. Fifteen years of experience was enough for Chris to know. Chris gave his bid, card, and shook his hand promising to be in touch.

With a few of his meetings running over, he was later than usual getting home, but Stiles’s car still wasn’t there. He got out of his SUV and went up the front steps. He put the food on the island and checked his email, then the news on his phone. After thirty minutes, he called Stiles.

It rang twice and went to voicemail.

“Jesus,” he said under his breath as he went down the hall to his study.

He moved some of the books on his shelf and took out the bottle of bourbon he kept. He drank slowly, considering getting into the false covered copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_. He still had a decent amount of coke for a man who rarely used. He had a larger bag of heroin. Remnants of the empty years when Stiles was in school a state away.

He had gotten all of it from John.

For the first time since Claudia killed herself, they had spent time together, one-on-one. John had given him the drugs he used to love. The person he had been before he started raising Stiles. The man who had hated taking over the security business from his father, hated being queer and his father knowing it, hated being second to the golden child who had served his country right out of high school, had gone to school and become a sheriff’s deputy, gotten married to a beautiful woman, and had an even more beautiful son.

Now John had a beer gut. His wife was long dead, like their father. His son barely spoke to him.

Chris’s business was steady. He had nearly a million in the bank. He had a nephew who loved him, lived with him, consulted him about everything.

They had finally been mending their fences, then Stiles had graduated, come home, started job hunting, and reconnecting with John. Then John had fucked his boy. And Chris knew the exact night it happened first. Stiles had tried to avoid him when he came home at two in the morning, but Chris had stopped him in the upper hall and seen the molten skin on his throat.

Chris broke two knuckles on John’s nose and jaw.

But it didn’t stop.

And he didn’t know what to do.

He could only explode so many times. Only tell Stiles how fucking stupid he was being so many times.

Then the front door came open. The same. Door knob hitting the wall. Stiles’s keys hitting the table. His bag dropping against the hall table. Chris glanced at his phone. Two hours late.

He went down the hall to the kitchen where Stiles was looking in the paper sacks of food. His lip was fat and swollen.

“What happened to your face?”

“Made a move on the wrong guy,” Stiles said.

“Did you call the cops?”

Stiles laughed. It sounded like a bark.

“So Dad could throw some fuckwad in jail over a bar fight?”

“Yes.”

“Not worth it,” Stiles said.

His eyes were already red-rimmed. He had only gotten off work a handful of hours ago. He looked in each container before he poured half of the broccoli and beef into the clear plastic lid. Then he took the tray holding the rest and scooped half of the hunan chicken into the other side. Chris stood on the other side of the island as Stiles sat down and filled in the empty places on the other tray.

“Wanna get drunk tonight?”

“I want you to keep your food down,” Chris said.

“Whatever you say,” he said. “I don’t have to work tomorrow.”

“We can have a few drinks.”

Stiles held up his hand and Chris high-fived him. The clap of their skin was loud without the drone of the radio or TV.

“How was work?” Chris asked, trying to keep his eyes from going to the hickey on Stiles’s throat.

“Slow. You?”

“Run of the mill.”

Stiles nodded as he chewed, not looking at Chris but staring out of the window. Chris got up and went down the hall to his study. He grabbed the bottle of bourbon he had been sipping and brought it into the kitchen.

Stiles groaned with his mouth full of food when he saw the bottle.

“Fuck yes. Dad drinks shit.”

“When you drink that much you can’t afford to keep decent liquor,” Chris said.

“Isn't that the truth?”

Chris took down low balls and poured them both a few fingers full. Stiles surprised him by sipping it. He did the same as he kept eating, watching Stiles across from him as he put away a decent amount of food.

“I thought you were done with that,” Chris said.

“Chinese food?”

When he said nothing, Stiles glanced up at him and Chris touched his own neck. Stiles rubbed his hand over the swollen bruise.

“Want to be.”

“Then stop going over there.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“It is.”

Stiles shook his head, taking another bite. “Don’t act moral about it.”

“It’s not about morals. It’s about you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Lie to yourself if you want, but you can’t lie to me, Stiles.”

Stiles shook his head again and pulled at his hair how he always did when he drank. He did it when he was high too. They had only been high together a few times, but those times had been fun. Cartoons and bad food when Peter visited. It was the only time that Peter and Stiles weren’t at each other’s throats.

Chris tossed back his bourbon and Stiles did the same after a moment. He didn’t even wince. Stiles poured them two more glasses and they toasted before tossing those back too.

“Now easy,” Chris said. “Eat and drink some water.”

“Don’t be a pussy, Uncle Chris.”

“I’m not stopping. I’m holding my liquor. A skill you should learn.”

Stiles snorted, but he ate a few more bites. He had put a decent sized chunk in his meal before he put the cover back on it. Chris took both of their dinners to the fridge and put them on the bare shelves. When he turned around, Stiles was right there. With the drinking he had done before Stiles got home and what he had just done, he was in a warm spot. He touched Stiles’s chin, brushing his swollen lip.

“Why were you at a bar?”

“The guys at work went. Figured I’d join them,” Stiles said. Then he leaned up, putting his arms around Chris. He was always a clingy drunk. “Wanna get high with me? You don’t have to work tomorrow.”

“On what?”

“Jesus, Peter,” Stiles said, laughing. It was more like of a giggle. “Weed.”

“Okay.”

Stiles smiled before he shot up the stairs. Chris heard him fall halfway up and went to check on him, but Stiles was already on the second floor. Chris followed after him, leaning on the banister and watching as Stiles was completely unaware of him seeing him slip the loose floorboard in his bedroom. He took out a bag of weed and a dugout.

When Stiles turned around, he jumped, laughing.

“Cat’s outta the bag?”

“I’ve known that was there since the day I moved in.”

“Did you know I used it for anything?”

“I checked it every two weeks when you were in high school,” Chris said, walking into Stiles’s bedroom as he loaded the pinch hitter.

“Never thought this was worth taking?”

“I was in high school once too.”

“Yeah? Thirty years ago.”

“Fifteen, prick.”

Stiles laughed as he put the wooden hitter to his lips and lit the end with a neon green Bic. His work shirt was unbuttoned, showing the dust-covered white undershirt beneath it. After a long drag, Stiles passed Chris the hitter.

He had always preferred wooden ones. They didn’t burn when they got hot like the metal ones he and Peter used to smoke out of at concerts. He inhaled until the cherry touched his tongue. He exhaled slowly, tapping the hitter out and loading it again from Stiles’s redwood dugout.

“Pretty,” Chris said.

“Right?” Stiles said as he took off his work shirt then stripped off his over shirt while standing at his closet. "A guy I went to school with did the carvings." 

Chris had seen each and every one of his tattoos individually when Stiles sent him pictures. He had paid for most of them as presents for doing well in his midterms, finals, birthdays, just because Stiles made it through that class he fucking hated. They shared the one on their ribs. He wondered if John knew that. That the wolf head he dragged his hands over had a twin on Chris’s side. They hadn’t meant it to, but Chris’s had come out with a lighter muzzle. The tattoo artist had even put a nick in its ear. It sent the message. Stiles may not be his son, not through blood, but he was his pup.

He could hear the wet rattle of John’s breathing, see him on the floor of his house with his face battered.

“Still love that one,” Stiles said, looking down at the tattoo Chris was staring at. “Probably my favorite.”

“It's nice.”

“Let me see yours. I haven’t seen it in years.”

Chris took another hit before passing it to Stiles. He shrugged off his overshirt and lifted up his t-shirt. Stiles stared at it for a moment before he came closer, inhaling and the end of his pipe glowing red before he blew smoke close enough for Chris to smell it as he touched his ribs. Chris shivered. Stiles laughed.

“Sorry, my fingers are cold.”

“Like ice,” Chris said.

“I know,” Stiles said, rubbing his hand on his jeans. “Let’s go watch Amazon in your room.”

Chris grabbed Stiles’s dugout off the dresser and went down he hall with him toward his own bedroom. Even if he was sober, this wouldn’t be that out of the ordinary. Stiles had his own Amazon account. They could go down to the living room, but it wasn’t as comfortable as his room. It wasn’t as big either.

Stiles flopped on his bed. Chris put his arms around his waist and tossed him farther over. Stiles laughed and Chris smiled slightly, giving his head a small push. Then Stiles looked around before spotting the remote on Chris’s bedside table. He climbed over him to get it, his thin chest pressing into Chris’s own. Chris steadied him when he lost his balance. Then Stiles flopped back down on the other pillow, splayed out, as he turned on Chris’s TV. He flipped through the channels before landing on a show they could both stand.

Whatever kind of weed Stiles had, it was strong. He hadn’t smoked since Peter was last over and that had been months. He was nodding slightly, content to watch TV with Stiles warm and alive against him. When Stiles crowded him, he put his arm around him.

Weed had an amazing way of making him think of nothing he wanted to stress about and then slamming him with his worst thoughts out of nowhere. Like one second he was laughing slightly at the cartoon Stiles had put on and the next he was thinking of how narrow Stiles’s ribs felt and how cool his skin was. He was thinking about the fact that the night before Stiles had let his dad fuck him, again.

“You got quiet.”

“Just hit me.”

Stiles held him closer. Stiles had always been a tactile boy. His therapists had marked it up to losing his mom and then his dad. He was like glue to Chris. And Chris had always been tactile. His dad sure as fuck wasn’t and he had never wanted to pass that on. He hugged Stiles. He kissed him on the face. He rubbed his back when he was younger. But Stiles hadn’t been this close to him in years, but then again, his life in the last month was something Chris could barely think about.

“I know what you’re thinking about,” Stiles said quietly.

Chris squeezed his arm.

“I’m not a pervert.”

“No. You aren’t.”

“He’s not either.”

“Don’t make excuses for him, Stiles.”

“It was my idea,” Stiles said so quietly that Chris almost didn’t hear him. “Not really to keep it up like we did, but it wasn’t not not my idea either.” Chris tried to move to look at him and Stiles clutched him closer. “Don’t look at me.”

Chris cleared his throat, but nodded. “I don’t care who started it. If it doesn’t end soon on it’s own, I’ll make it. I don’t know what you’re doing to yourself for him.”

“It’s not for him,” Stiles said, his voice hardening. “It’s me. Trying to figure out… I don’t know. Trying to figure out some shit. And I don’t know.”

“Then keep going. Try me.”

“It’s fucked up.”

“You’ve already passed that point.”

Stiles inhaled then pulled away to lay on his back. The TV light and lamps glowed on his skin. For once he didn’t look like a ghost. The warmth of the lamps made him look like there was some life to him even when the pits beneath his eyes said otherwise.

“I started thinking… I don’t know. I’ve always been into older men. That’s just a given. Bad relationship with the father is a main contributing factor. So I mean, I look at father and son porn a lot. Then when I was looking for some new shit I found this essay by this woman who had sex with her father and she talked about how intense it was, this attraction she had, how loved she felt. Then I just started looking at Dad different. I figured if anyone could experiment with this it was me. I wanted to do it and see if it helped. It couldn’t hurt.”

“That’s failable logic. You know it.”

“Just let me talk.”

“Fine.”

“So I’ve always kinda known he’d probably fuck me if I asked. After Mom died when he started drinking he started looking at me sometimes like… I don’t know. Too long. He’d hug me for too long. His hands would linger on my thighs. Chill out. He never did anything to me.”

Chris tried to make himself relax. He had gone board stiff. He made his shoulders drop and exhaled.

“So I got drunk with him,” Stiles continued. “And cuddled up to him on the couch. I told him what I wanted to do and he argued a little, but when I kissed him, he kissed me back.

“I felt that rush the chick wrote about. This like, I don’t know, like love on speed. He knew me. He helped make me. I’m half his own flesh and having him inside me was mind blowing. We fucked at least six times the first weekend.

“So when I started getting mad at him, we’d just fuck. I started sending him pictures of my cock and he started sending them to me. He fucked me in his cop car while I was on my lunch break in the preserve.

“It’s like a fucking drug.”

“It’s not healthy, Stiles,” Chris said quietly.

“I know,” Stiles said. For long moments, Chris couldn’t hear anything from the other side of his bed, but he knew Stiles wasn’t done talking. “I need to know if it’s different with you,” he said. “I want to know if you can get me there, to that peak that I can’t get with him. As soon as I had sex with him I realized he was just a fill-in.

“It’s beyond fucked up, but I want the man who took care of me when I was sick, taught me to drive, watched my football games, sent me money in college when I just wanted a goddamn pizza. I want that person’s love the way I have his. You’ve always been better than him at giving me what I need.

“Maybe if I feel what it should feel like, maybe I’ll stop going to him. Maybe I can stop, because maybe you’ll make it go away. This fucking hole in my chest. Maybe you can make it stop hurting.”

“You don’t need to fuck me. You need to go see someone professionally,” Chris said quietly.

“Who? In the town I’m trying to practice in? Yeah. Let me just go tell a therapist how I’m fucking my well-known father.”

“Stiles-”

“Just because it isn’t the way they deal with it in movies doesn’t mean it’s wrong,” Stiles said. “Every form of therapy was considered insane until it was proven right.”

Chris stared at his bedroom ceiling. In his queen sized bed he could feel Stiles’s warmth. Maybe it was his own warmth bouncing back. Stiles was too thin to be emitting strong heat of his own.

“Is this what you would want a client of yours to do?” Chris asked quietly.

“No one else has one like you.”

“We’re not any different from anyone else, Stiles,” Chris whispered.

“If something wasn’t broken we couldn’t be having this conversation.”

Chris swallowed and traced the raised bump of a scar on his arm. He got it when he was eleven and he John were running from a pissed off neighbor. He had slipped and cut his arm open on a tin fence. When they got home, John had pushed paper towels to the deep cut. He had washed Chris’s clothes and thrown out the ones that wouldn’t come clean. It kept them both from being at the wrong side of their father’s thick black leather belt for the night.

“What if it makes it worse?”

“What if you’re the only thing that will make it better?” Stiles whispered.

“It’s not going to, Stiles.”

Stiles rolled toward him and Chris could see his own face reflected upside down in his dark pupils.

“But you don’t want to not fuck me, because it grosses you out.”

Chris was too high to lie, so he said nothing.

Stiles leaned closer and Chris pulled away.

“Stiles.”

“Please,” he said quietly. “I promise. It won’t change anything about me and you. I love you so fucking much, Uncle Chris.”

“Is that really a risk we want to take?”

“It isn’t a risk,” Stiles said, close enough that Chris could smell the weed and bourbon on his breath. He didn’t realize he was brushing one of Stiles’s nipples until his breathing stuttered.

“I’m sorry.”

Stiles moved closer until they were chest to chest. Chris held the side of his neck and stared at him. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Him or Stiles. Staring into his dark eyes wasn’t making anything clearer.

Stiles leaned up and his lips move against his for a few seconds before Chris opened his mouth and kissed him back. He threaded his fingers into Stiles’s hair and kissed him deeper. Stiles moaned into his mouth.

“Fuck,” Stiles said, panting as he slid his hands down Chris’s chest. “This is- that’s it. This.”

“We can stop,” Chris said.

“Fuck no. No god no. Don’t fucking stop.”

Chris slid his fingers into the band of Stiles’s underwear on his hip, pushing them down with his loose jeans. Stiles helped him until his bare hot skin was under his hands. He slid his hand behind him and squeezed his ass.

“Can’t breathe. Fuck. Want this so bad.”

Chris moved his hand up Stiles’s body until he held his throat. He pulled away enough to see his dark eyes. His cheeks were red beneath his moles. He had always looked more like his son than John’s. Dark hair. His bone structure. His mouth. His full mouth that he never let himself think about when he masturbated to boys that looked like Stiles. None of them were as beautiful.

“I’ve got you,” Chris said.

“Don’t stop,” Stiles said quietly.

“Not going to.”

Stiles held his wrist, sliding his hand up his own. He squeezed Stiles’s throat gently before he slid his hand down his chest then over his thin stomach. A cooling string of pre-cum tacked to his lower stomach. Stiles’s breathing hitched as Chris closed his hand around his shaft.

“Oh my God,” Stiles said, squeezing his eyes closed.

“I’m just going to jack off with you,” Chris said.

“No, no,” Stiles started to babble. “Need you to fuck me.”

“Next time.”

“You’re only going to do this once. I know it. So do you. Fuck me good enough that I don’t need it again,” Stiles said against his lips. “I need it, Uncle Chris. Please. Please.”

Chris kissed him hard. Stiles gave as good as he got. His thin hands dug into Chris’s back, his nails leaving crescents in his skin. Chris laid between his thighs, feeling his own hard cock against Stiles’s with only the thin fabric of his boxers between them. Stiles pushed at the band without breaking their kiss. Chris pulled away enough to push his underwear off. He grunted at the feeling of his cock against Stiles’s softest skin.

“Son of a bitch,” Chris said with his forehead against Stiles’s.

“I’m fucking shaking,” Stiles said.

Chris slid his hand down Stiles’s trembling thigh.

“You need to fucking eat.”

“I’ll eat all the fucking Chinese you want.”

Chris huffed. Stiles laughed slightly under him. His narrow hand caressed his face. Then Chris head the faint clicking. It took him a moment to see it was Stiles’s teeth. Chris pulled the blankets closer around them.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he whispered.

“Want me to blow you?” he asked, kissing his cheek, back to his ear.

Stiles arched back to show his neck. That’s why he always had hickeys. He liked them. Chris put his mouth where John’s had been. As soon as he started to suck his skin, Stiles groaned, digging his nails into his back again.

“If you suck me I’m going to come,” Stiles said. “Yeah leave a mark. Wanna feel it tomorrow.”

Chris bit into the thick tendons on Stiles’s throat gently, licking the red skin before he sucked hard. When John saw him again, he was going to see it. Chris pressed down into Stiles’s hips and gripped him closer. Stiles turned his head to the side and went weak as Chris worked his pale skin.

“You fucking hate the hickies he gives me,” Stiles said around his heavy breathing.

Chris pulled away when he could taste blood. He didn’t know if it was his own from sucking so hard or Stiles’s, but Stiles’s skin was as dark as bruise. Chris dragged his thumb over it and Stiles winced even as he pushed up into it.

“You like to feel it,” Chris said, kissing up his throat.

Stiles nodded, dragging his teeth over his lower lip.

“Fuck me dry.”

Chris shook his head before he put two of his fingers against Stiles’s lips. He opened so easily, sucking them inside and sliding his warm tongue over them. When they were coated with his spit, Chris pulled them out and put his hand between them, between their heat and rubbed against Stiles’s warm hole. He felt Stiles’s dick twitch between them and felt the surge of blood in his own.

When he pushed his finger inside, Stiles stiffened before rocking back. Chris worked his finger inside of him, finding his prostate and massaging it. Stiles’s eyes rolled as he spread his legs wider, his lips parted. Chris kissed him again.

“Good?”

Stiles nodded. “Feels so good.”

Chris eased in his second finger and watched Stiles’s face. Stiles was breathing hard when he opened his eyes again. Seeing lust in his dark eyes was something he had never thought he would see. A year ago the thought would’ve repulsed him. At least he would’ve thought it did. He didn’t know how long he would’ve been okay with fucking Stiles. Probably never if John hadn’t crossed that line before him. But John couldn’t give Stiles what he needed. He’d never been able to do that.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m going to wake up any second,” Stiles said.

Chris started to kiss him again before he pulled his fingers out. Stiles brought his knees up, his thighs resting against Chris’s waist. He lined himself up with Stiles’s opening and pushed when he felt the soft give. He spit into his hand and lubed his cock with it before pushing back against Stiles’s hole. Stiles held him around his shoulders.

“Does it feel any different than when you do it with John?” he asked quietly.

Stiles nodded. “That-. That feeling I was talking about. The intensity. It fucking hurts. Do you-. You feel it?”

Chris swallowed and nodded. His mouth was dry. His heart was pounding. The best sex of his life had been with Peter Hale. The man he was sure was the love of his life. The one he left to come take care of Stiles when Claudia died and John fell off the wagon. Even when he and Peter made love, or had their filthiest depraved sex, it was a fraction of this.

“I love you so much.”

Stiles nodded. His eyes were full of water. “Feels like my fucking heart is going to come out of my chest.”

Chris kissed him again before rocking against his soft hole. He felt Stiles’s push out and he slipped inside. He clutched Stiles’s hip as he pressed deeper, hearing his soft whimper even as he squeezed him closer.

“Fuck you’re bigger,” he said, panting before he rolled his hips and started to breath harder. “Uncle Chris, I can’t-. Fuck. Don’t- Don’t stop.”

Chris ground forward, kissing Stiles to stop him. Stiles gasped against his lips with a sweet whimper. His fingers dug into Chris’s back again. He was going to be bloody when it was over, but the sting only helped.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

“Don’t stop. Please.”

The pressure in Chris’s chest built. He cupped Stiles’s cheek and felt the wetness. He kissed him again, tasting the salt of his tears on his lips. As he slowly ground inside of Stiles it didn’t feel like he could get close enough. He was covering his smaller body. He was inside of him, their mouths were together. They were breathing air recycled from the other’s lungs. Stiles’s normally cool fingers were warmed from his skin. He could smell him. His skin, his hair, his breath, his sweat. He felt the friction from their bodies and it hurt.

“I love you so much,” he said again, because he couldn’t not.

“Love you too,” Stiles said. “I don’t ever want to stop.”

If they did this again, his fucking heart was going to explode. He understood why people didn’t fuck their families. Why it was such a taboo. Why children produced from the unions were deformed. It was too strong. The love he had for Stiles ran to his core. Mixing it with the passion of a lover was too much. It didn’t feel like he could breathe. It felt like he was going to come out of his skin.

Every porn he had seen was the lowest tier comparison. There was none to be made. There was no way to show how hard his heart was beating or how protective he felt of Stiles underneath him, like as long as he was right there, living and breathing underneath him, nothing could ever hurt him. Whatever fucked up things he was going through, it couldn’t get to him. Not with Chris holding him skin to skin, as close to being one person as they possibly could be.

“I feel like fucking glass,” Stiles said, his voice cracking.

“I’ll stop-”

“No. Not like that,” Stiles said, squeezing him closer.

Safe. He felt fragile. Chris held him closer and Stiles’s chest quaked against his own. They never fucked hard, but it was deep and drug. Chris didn’t want it to end. The second it ended, he had to face what he had done. The second this ended, he was never going to have it again. But when Stiles came between them without touching himself, Chris followed him, biting the curve of Stiles’s neck.

As they came down, Chris rolled off Stiles, but pulled him with him until Stiles was tucked against his front beneath the blankets. Chris kissed his cheek, dragging his fingers down his back.

“Stiles?” he whispered.

Stiles looked up at him and his eyes were wet. He exhaled wetly before leaning up to kiss Chris. Chris melted back into the kiss, holding him close. It felt like his heart has been rolled in some kind of stripping agent. All that was left was the intensity. The love.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Stiles nodded. Then he pressed closer to Chris, his face in the crook of Chris’s neck. Chris brushed his face with his thumb before kissing his cheek. He felt Stiles’s shaky exhale against his skin.

“Did it make it worse?” he asked.

“Fuck no,” Stiles said, tightening his hold on Chris’s shoulders. “He could never give me what I needed. You always can.”

Chris brushed his nose against Stiles’s hair before holding him close and closing his eyes. He felt Stiles fall asleep against him then heard his soft snores. He felt no urge to move. Disgust was a faint knock at the back of his brain, but all he was feeling was warmth as his nephew slept in his arms.

 

When Chris woke up again, daylight was coming through the blinds. Stiles was on his hands and knees beside him in a pair of underwear. He kissed Chris’s cheek before he kissed him softly on the mouth. Chris cupped his face and kissed him back as the sudden panic of waking up and realizing what he had done was silenced under Stiles’s soft lips.

“Made breakfast. Want to come eat or want me to bring it up here?” Stiles asked.

Chris smiled slightly. “Whatever you want, kid.”

Stiles smiled and Chris couldn’t help smiling wider. It was like waking up with Peter after the first time they slept together. Except shot up on PCP.

Stiles was right. It was a drug. As he kissed Stiles’s softly, he knew he could be better than the drug John had been.

He had already proved that.

And now he would do it again.

**Author's Note:**

> May add to this in the future as a Stetopher continuation.


End file.
